


unstuck in time, together

by whystherumgone



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: 1700s Claire, Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Canon Rewrite, Canon Universe, Dark Past, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Healing, Historical References, Humor, Long-Term Relationship(s), Magic, Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Claire, Past Relationship(s), Physical Abuse, Quote: Through Dangers Untold and Hardships Unnumbered, TV Rewrite, True Love, UST
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2020-06-03 14:54:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19466335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whystherumgone/pseuds/whystherumgone
Summary: Claire was always meant to marry a Randall. And Jamie was always meant to find a home in an Outlander. Those who are unstuck in their time… death and feverish truths of the soul doth follow.(Strap in.)





	1. Episode one

**Author's Note:**

> Always the editor-in-chief, NGH. You know who you are, love.

_1744, late September_

I ran. 

When violence descended upon our meager envoy in the shape of masked Scottish clansmen, I took to my feet and ran. Later, I could not recall making the choice deliberately. I only remembered my heart awakening within my breast, and my skirts billowing in the wind, my hair torn asunder. 

The nature of the freedom I was consequently gifted was not one that I had then considered. Truly, I had barely thought at all in that moment. My body acted by rote. It directed me down from my horse into a nearby trench, and sent me crawling away from the screams of men in slaughter. The movements were simple and efficient, a matter of survival.

I knew later that I did not truly believe I could escape. I merely – secretly – longed to commit an offense so grievous that it would inspire retribution of the swiftest and, perhaps, even the permanent kind. If he found me… if, in front of his men, I freely admitted to betraying him… he may have to kill me to protect his standing. 

And find me he did.

But he was alone, bleeding profusely from a tear in his hairline, and he did not utter a word. I was momentarily dumbstruck. The sounds of battle were still echoing from the nearby clearing, and yet he was here, stood in front of me. Surely he would not have run from savagery? She was the only mistress I had known him to keep. 

For the space of a breath, I hesitated. He did not. 

He closed the distance between us and struck me in the stomach. The pain was so great and the departure of hope so swift that I collapsed onto the ground, retching dryly. He hit me again, the bright scarlet of his coat stinging my eyes. Or was it the tears that burned so? 

My earlier naivete was as familiar as the cursed shape of his knuckles. How could I have done this to myself again? How could I have allowed myself to keep faith against my better judgment, against all odds? Presently, he twisted a hand in my scalp and wrenched my head back to sneer at me. I felt my mouth quiver. 

I laughed. I peered into the hazel-colored void of my husband’s eyes and laughed with utter abandon. Jonathan Wolverton Randall. My protector.

It was a final gambit of sorts. If I could blind him with rage and force him to end me in this very forest, I would die victorious. But he merely released me, and aimed the next blow at my right shoulder blade, the butt of his sword landing with such precision and force that I almost lost consciousness. At least he was courteous enough to look affronted by my display. 

He kicked me then, twice, and with great honesty, and straddled my lower back. Some very distant part of me felt a twinge of disbelief. He rarely resorted to rape so quickly in his games. In different circumstances I might have recognized this as the attempt that it was to disguise the sudden weakness brought on by his head wound. But it was too late. I was too tired and weary to carry the burden of agony today, and my vision faded as I felt his hands under my skirts, reaching, ripping. 

The last thing I knew was the crushing weight of his body collapsing on top of me.

\--

When I woke, I could not tell exactly how much time had passed, though the light of day was only now receding, coloring the sky in rich, pink and purple hues. But I discerned immediately what had roused me. I was sat on a remarkably well-kept black stallion, trotting easily across a meadow toward what appeared to be a shanty. Still, it was neither the animal nor its pace that had pulled me back from oblivion; it was the scent of my traveling companion. For a moment, the ripeness of the air overwhelmed me, and I swayed in the saddle. 

His arms tightened around me with a grunt. “Steady nae, lass,” he warned in a hoarse tone. “Or I michtna keep ahold ye.” 

I clutched the pommel and craned my neck to look at the man. He wasn’t one of Jack’s men, I was relieved to see; but from his kilt, cap, and manner of speech I could only surmise that he was part of the group of Scottish rebels who attacked us. My teeth gritted at the thought of being passed from one captor to another like cattle.

“Where am I,” I asked, with as much politeness as I could muster. 

The brown-haired Scot gave me a lopsided smirk. “Yer wi me, mistress,” he said. “An no thanks be needed for relieving ye of that whureson, Randall.”

Hearing the name made me feel ill again. “Thank you,” I breathed. 

He sniffed.

“Aye, dinna fash, lass. Though I wouldna say no to hearin’ more about how ye ended up in the woods wi’e captain o’ dragoons on top o’ ye?” He paused, as if considering his words. “Ye ken it doesna look good where yer honor is concerned.”

“He attacked me,” I said, speaking truthfully. “I ran from him. He thought my cowardice deserved a beating.”

The man scoffed, a sound of displeasure escaping his throat, and tightened his grip on the reigns. 

“I saw ye resisted, lass.”

 _Countless, endless times_ , I thought. But it wasn’t a question. “Yes. I tried.”

He reached over and gave my left hand a brief squeeze. His palms were rough, weathered by hard work and fighting; but his grip was sincere, even gentle. I was astounded to find myself not repulsed by touch. 

“We willna speak of it nae more,” he said.

He kept his word.

\-- 

I only had to leave it be. 

Hasty introductions had been made. I had given my maiden name, Beauchamp, in an attempt to avoid further questioning. None of the seven or so clansmen had given their names in return except for my erstwhile malodorous savior, Murtagh, and the band’s leader, Dougal MacKenzie. We were to depart the hut after they tended to the wounded.

I only had to leave it be. 

Years ago, Uncle Lamb had taught me about the pain-numbing aftereffects of shock, and I now felt them dissipating. Jack’s earlier ministrations would soon wreak havoc on my body. At best, I was severely bruised, had injured ligaments, and potentially torn muscles. At worst, those sharp and piercing twinges in my back were a fractured scapula.

But I was a healer, damn it all, and these dirt-crusted Highlanders were about to mangle a man. Lamb had not raised me to stay stood meekly in a corner. 

“ _Bloody cretins_ ,” I whispered furiously under my breath and moved to intervene. “Cease that this instance!”

They all turned to look back at me as I approached, three brutes releasing their grip on the distressed fourth one. The latter had the most magnificent mop of red hair, even for a Scot. The flames of the hearth lit behind him seemed to dance in the fiery red curls. I approached with hands on hips, swatted at the overeager brigands for good measure, and rounded on Dougal.

“I will treat him,” I said, and then pointed. “His shoulder is out of joint. Before we can reset it, we must angle the upper arm properly. Otherwise, he’ll lose agility on that side permanently.” 

The mustachioed man gave me an incredulous look. I did not wait for a reply.

“We don’t have time for this nonsense,” I muttered and sat opposite the injured man on the bench. Several of his friends moved to unsheathe their weapons in response, but Murtagh cleared his throat loudly. He and Dougal shared a look, at which point Dougal rolled his eyes, motioning for his men to stand back. I gave Murtagh a brief smile and turned to inspect the unnatural angle of the redhead’s shoulder bones. I grasped the man’s forearm, cautious, testing. 

“This will hurt,” I said to him. “But you mustn’t move while I do this, do you understand?” 

Our eyes locked then, and for an instant, the color of his gaze carried me back to my childhood, back to one beautiful, sunny morning when Uncle Lamb and I were hiding in the field with the tall grass, spying upon a barn swallow wearing a coat of the exact same shade of blue. 

The memory was bittersweet. Before today, I had not thought of Lamb in months. In fact, I had resigned myself fully to the notion that my time with Jack had all but crippled my capacity to even recollect happiness. 

Doctor Lamb. Revered in every village we visited, he still told all his visitors to call him “Lamb” and treated the poor and the abandoned for free.

“Lass, are ye there?” 

I had been staring at the red-haired Scot. How much time had just passed? I could hear the men whispering in Gaelic behind me.

“Apologies, what were you saying?”

“I said, understood, I willna move,” my patient repeated.

“Yes, thanks,” I agreed, berating myself in my head whilst angling his forearm into the proper position. I held his gaze now, steady. _I will make you proud one day, Uncle_. “We’re ready. On the count of three: one, two…” 

I leaned into the twist, and felt the bone slot back into the socket.

The highlander yelped, staring at me in shock. “Ye said three!”

I grinned. “Three.”

\--

We had ridden for a night and half a day when I recognized the rocky formation in front of us. A sense of cold dread broke across my back. 

There was a rare night a few months past, when I was allowed brief leave of my bedchambers. Elated, I was wandering the deserted, torch-lit halls of Jack’s manor when I happened upon a set of maps splayed across his desk. I thought nothing of them at the time, barely pausing to register the complicated red markings. Mostly, I was terrified to have entered his study on accident. But now I realized that what I saw must have been patrol routes. 

English soldiers were hiding up ahead, and I had to somehow warn these unsuspecting Scots. I owed them this, at least, for unwittingly aiding my escape when they attacked Jack’s men. Though I also strongly suspected that I was currently their prisoner.

“Mistress Beauchamp, what troubles ye,” a gravelly voice behind me asked.

I turned in disbelief. My earlier patient, who had introduced himself as Jamie MacTavish, was a proving to be a most troublesome riding companion. He was tall, broad-chested, quick to laugh, and most disconcertingly perceptive. Dougal was a clever bastard if this was how he had decided to punish me for my insolent tone in the hut.

Jamie gave me a wolfish grin. “What? Ye ken ye get as stiff as a twig when ye’re carryn a weight in yer mind.”

“I was not aware, no,” I groaned.

“Aye, tis true. Best be sharin’ nae afore the others take note.”

I sighed. Claire Randall did not exist, because Jack never told anyone about his marriage; this lie was key to my successful long-term imprisonment. She thus could not have information about the movements of her husband’s men. Claire Beauchamp had _no business_ having this information because she was only traveling to Inverness to meet her family and to set sail for France. In either case, I was damned regardless of the explanation firstly because I was an Englishwoman who surely had to be a spy to have the troop movement knowledge that only high-ranking officers should possess. 

“Lass…” Jamie warned.

I stroked the horse’s mane, stalling. “Mr. MacTavish, would you agree that I am a competent healer?”

“Aye, mistress,” he narrowed his eyes at me. “But I canna see why ye ask me so.”

I gripped the pommel, praying for strength. My shoulder blade burned with dull pain.

“The point that I am trying to make, Mr. MacTavish, is that I healed you when I did not have to, and I did so without deception or arrogance. I did not lie to you about my experience. And I’m about to speak truly again about another matter. Will you lend me your ear without judgment?” 

He nodded solemnly, though he could not entirely conceal the amused smile playing about his lips.

“That rock up ahead, the one pointed like a cock’s tail? The English camp there,” I explained. “I am not certain of this, but I believe we might be in danger.”

Jamie tensed, a shadow crossing his face. He looked at me pensively, but did not press further, despite his clear desire to do so. A moment passed.

“Dougal!” he then called. 

They exchanged a few words in Gaelic while I desperately tried to maintain composure. Dougal turned to me with a scowl. 

“I will ask ye only once, woman, how ye ken o’ the redcoats up aheid,” he said, placing a hand upon his dirk for emphasis.

His tone was as good an affirmation as I would get on whether the Scots considered me a prisoner. Frankly, I had no right to feel upset with Dougal. He was merely trying to protect his kinsmen. I was a stranger, and he had no reason place trust in me. He likely even suspected, and truthfully so, that I had given a false name. 

But I was tired, bruised all over, and at the end of my bloody rope. 

“ _Or what_?” I spat. Jamie stilled perceptibly behind me. “You’re going to kill me? Well bloody go ahead because at least you’ll spare me this incessant nattering. I am trying to save all your lives, and I’ve done nothing but help since the moment we met.”

Dougal’s eyes were wide as saucers, and he gripped my wrist with enough strength to break bones. 

“Ye are the most insolent wench I ‘ave ever—!”

“Dougal, tis a bonnie place for a trap, no?” Jamie interrupted. He gestured at the rest of the men, all watching us keenly, and at the surrounding area at large. “Why nae have a wee bit o’ fun wi it?” 

The men were nodding and humming in agreement. Running from a worthy fight would label Dougal a coward, and he knew that he could not disagree with Jamie now that the rest of the band was involved. He released his hold on my wrist with a sneer and gave Jamie a look that spoke volumes. It reminded me so fiercely of Jack that I felt myself leaning to place as much of my body in front of Jamie as I could while seated in a saddle. It was the look of a man who intended to inflict pain. 

\--

Hours after the Scots had left the redcoat patrol in tatters, and everyone’s spirits seemed to have lifted, Dougal's included, Jamie toppled off our steed without warning and headfirst into the wet dirt below. We were traveling in complete darkness now, surrounded by the woods and the chill dampness of the autumn night. 

I yelled for the men to stop and dismounted, careful not to jostle my mistreated back. My grace on horseback was yet another debt owed to Uncle Lamb; our frequent voyages were what had originally allowed me to become a proficient rider.

Murtagh was at my shoulder immediately. 

“Devil take ye, lad, what’s the matter nae,” he asked the unmoving Jamie. 

I had known the ruddy-cheeked Scot all of two days, but I needed no further proof that he cared for Jamie deeply. Murtagh spoke infrequently, yet his presence at Jamie’s side was constant. When Jamie needed advice, he asked Murtagh first. And now that I was watching Dougal carefully, especially when he was near Jamie, I noticed Murtagh doing the same. Murtagh was a wise man, and he was likely helping the redhead navigate the treacherous waters of clan politicks unbeknownst to Jamie. My curiosity was stirred.

“He’s been shot,” I exclaimed in surprise. 

It was true. He must have gotten it during the skirmish with the redcoats; a bleeding bullet hole now sat in the trapezius muscle of the same shoulder I had just reset. I pulled back his shirt collar, hoping to see the exit wound on the other side. There wasn’t one. 

“ _Bloody idiot_!” I ground out, turning to look for Dougal. The man was directly behind me. “He requires immediate surgery,” I said. “The bullet didn’t go through. I need to remove it as quickly as possible or the wound will fester.”

Silence followed.

“No.”

“What?” I said, stunned. I could not believe this. Would Dougal leave Jamie behind because of a petty quarrel? Outrage washed over me like a giant wave. “Did you not hear me? If the wound festers, he will die of fever within days. You cannot possibly think he can ride in this condition?”

“If he canna mount, he’ll get a pistol to decide his own fate wi,” Dougal said, voice hard as steel. He nodded at one of his men, who removed his firearm and tossed it at Jamie’s feet. Dougal started pulling me up by the arm.

I wrenched myself free.

“Do not think for a bloody moment that I am leaving this man behind,” I crowed. “I may be your prisoner, but I am first a healer. I will not leave a man to die. Shoot me where I stand, you barbarous pig, or count on hell if you try to take me by force.”

Quick as lightning, Dougal’s hand rose to strike me, but Murtagh was already there. 

“Dougal nae, I willna let the lass stray,” he spoke calmly, holding back the other man’s forearm. “Allou the mistress ter heal young Jamie, and we’ll be but a day behind ye.” 

Dougal bared his teeth, hand still raised. Suddenly, one of the men laughed. 

“She called ye a pig, Dougal!” he chortled, clutching his big belly.

“Yer husband should tan yer hide, woman,” another added.

“I ne’er heard a woman speak so foolish to a man,” a third agreed.

Murtagh’s mouth twitched into a cautious grin. “Aye, this one’s go’ a temper. Jamie calls her Sassenach when she isna nier, on account o’er own name soundin’ too meager.” 

The mood was shifted. Dougal’s men had saved me. More importantly, they had saved Jamie. They were all scoundrels, and I was still their prisoner, but in that moment I could not find it in myself to feel anything but gratitude for their presence. 

Dougal gave me a final glare. “A week,” he told Murtagh. “Afore I and Colum let loose the men. And ye,” he looked back at me, pointing menacingly. “There will be consequences.”

Murtagh nodded on my behalf, the men mounted, and then we were alone. He sighed.

“What nae, lassie?”

\--

Jamie was running out of time. We had been wandering for hours, but locating shelter while also avoiding English soldiers was proving difficult. I called out to Murtagh.

“His fever is rising, we have to stop soon.” I touched Jamie’s neck and forehead for what seemed like the tenth time in as many minutes. “His skin feels clammy, and he’s shivering. It’s fever. I think he has lost too much blood to properly fight the bullet.”

Murtagh grunted in response. My desperation grew.

“Might we just ask for help? We could ride to the nearest village or farmhouse, and ask for shelter?”

“Nae. We canna do that.”

“Why not? What other options do we have left?” I clutched the back of Jamie’s vest tighter. He was lying sideways on our horse, face down, where Murtagh and I had positioned him the best we could. “I defied Dougal MacKenzie to save him, we both did! What else have we to lose? Is it truly only your pride that stands in between Mr. MacTavish and a clean bed?”

Murtagh brought his mount to an abrupt stop, facing me with a grimace that turned my blood cold. This was a man who had killed before and had killed often. Dougal was most certainly dangerous and arrogant, and could hurt me grievously. But Murtagh… I knew in that instant that Murtagh could make me disappear if he truly wanted. The words I was going to say next never came. 

“You willna speak nae, mistress,” he said, quietly, dangerously. “You willna lecture me on how best tae care fer a lad whose as good as a son tae me. Who are ye tae—?” 

He spat on the ground in anger and frustration, and it occurred to me how out of practice I was in dealing with other human beings. For the past two years, I had experienced only suffering and torment of the emotional and physical kind. More importantly, I had experienced it at the hands of a man who had promised to cherish and to protect me to the only parent I had ever had, Uncle Lamb. Jack’s outwardly charm and grace were a farce of extraordinary proportions, and the first few months of truth after our marriage were almost more than I could bear. Jack had courted my uncle as carefully as he had courted me; and once Lamb was gone, and a ring of ownership was fastened upon my finger, Jack revealed his true nature. A nature so cruel and so twisted that my greatest fear was that I would, inevitably, turn into a similar creature. 

I began crying. “Forgive me, please forgive me, Murtagh, please,” I choked. “I’m so sorry. I have to save him. I have to do this. Before he comes back for me, you must allow me to do this. You have to let me save him. Because if I die, if he kills me, and I have no memory of what it feels like to care for another person, if I cannot recall how to touch in kindness… it will be as though I never lived at all.” 

Great, shuddering sobs were rushing out of my body. I could not control myself and was mortified for it. A moment passed. Then, the horses neighed in response, and Murtagh’s arm circled around my shoulders, his free hand resting on Jamie’s back. I wasn’t sure when he had moved.

“Shhh, lass, nae,” he soothed, patting my arm gently. “Tis alright child, be nane feared. He’ll live, lass. And so will ye, aye, I ken we all will.” 

\--

In the end, we settled on a nearby stream. When we chanced upon it, the area appeared sufficiently secluded, and the thickness of the surrounding foliage gave us additional comfort. Wordlessly, we maneuvered Jamie off the horse and onto the grass. I bundled his own plaid under his head for support and handed Murtagh my water canister.

“Could you fetch some water? For later,” I nodded toward the stream. “I will also require alcohol and your knife.”

Murtagh rummaged through his sporran, placing a beautifully engraved sgian-dubh and a flask in my extended palm. The little blade looked like an heirloom.

“No fire,” he said, catching my eye.

“Yes, I understand.”

The circumstances were highly unfortunate. I would have to dig the bullet out without proper lighting. I would not be able to sear the wound subsequently, either, and we did not have a needle.

I exhaled. “You’ll have to hold him down. I can barely see, and if he wakes in the middle of it, I could do serious harm. At least the moon is out.”

Murtagh nodded. While he was gathering water, I gently peeled Jamie’s clothing away from the wound and removed the temporary bandages, ones made from my own shift, that I had placed over it earlier. They were soaked with blood, too much blood… but I resolved to not let the sight affect me as I tore more of my underskirts into thin strips, soaking them and the small knife in alcohol. I then used some of the prepared strips to clean my hands. 

“Can ye do it, mistress,” Murtagh asked, setting down the newly filled canister nearby and moving to hold the unconscious redhead’s shoulders. I was struck once more by how little I knew of his relation to Jamie. Lamb was the last person I had trusted unconditionally, and I sensed that Murtagh’s connection to Jamie was of the same kind. Murtagh had stood up to Dougal unflinchingly, as though he had done it many times before, and Dougal was not a man one crossed lightly.

“Yes.” There was no room for hesitation. I poured alcohol over the wound, which elicited a weak groan from Jamie. We stared at him for a moment. I looked to Murtagh. “Ready?”

He nodded, his expression grim, but determined. 

I had barely made the incision when Jamie’s eyes snapped open.

“Murtagh!” I warned.

The older man leaned weightily onto Jamie’s shoulders, pinning the young Scot to the ground. Faint and disoriented, Jamie still fought like a man drowning. I held the sgian-dubh as steadily as I could.

“Jamie, look at me,” I said, and his wild-eyed gaze settled upon my frame. “Jamie, it’s Claire, look at me. You have to be still, Jamie, you’ve been shot. You have been unconscious and you’ve lost a lot of blood. I am going to remove the bullet. Murtagh is here.” 

Confused as he still was, Jamie obeyed.

The next few minutes were filled only with heavy breathing, Jamie’s occasional grunts and hisses, and the sound of my voice as I explained every step I was taking in hopes of soothing both men.

“I’ve got it, I’ve found the bullet,” I said, leveraging the tiny ball onto the blade. “I’m removing it. I’m going to use water to clean the wound now. All right, now alcohol; this will hurt, Jamie. Very good, very good, we’re almost finished, almost there. I cannot stitch you up because we have no needle or thread, that will have to come later, but I will wrap the wound very tightly. It will not feel comfortable, but it should keep together provided you don’t exert yourself.”

Without prompting, Murtagh lifted Jamie to make room for my hands. When I finished, I gave Jamie a drink of water. 

“You bloody fool,” I glowered, still holding the canister for him. Now that the worst had passed, I could not help myself. “I could throttle you right now. Why didn’t you speak up the moment you were shot?” 

Jamie smirked. “It didna hurt much then,” he said easily. Murtagh snorted, shaking his head in a long-suffering way. 

I ground my teeth, trying to conceal my relief at the color returning to Jamie’s cheeks. “Well I certainly hope it bloody hurts now,” I told him.

Jamie have me a crooked smile, seemingly unworried by my fury.

That’s when we heard the patrol.

\--

Without even giving us leave to protest, Murtagh had bolted to the horses and led the redcoats away. I knew, of course, that it was the correct decision. Jamie was much too weak to travel, and I had a duty as his healer, but I was no less aggravated at the man for risking his life for mine. Of course, then I realized that Murtagh was only trying to save Jamie, and dutifully reminded myself that I was Murtagh and Jamie’s prisoner. Murtagh’s intervention a few days ago was retribution towards Jack, a hated foe, not a rescue of a friend. We were not friends.

The older Scot had been away for at least three hours now. When Jamie was leant up against a tree, fast asleep with our remaining mount nearby to keep him warm, I decided to go wash in the stream. I needed to nurse my wounds and was frankly relieved to avoid having to bare my skin in front of other people to do so. My body was stiff. Travel on horseback had done nothing to soothe my injuries, and I had to at least wash them of grime.

Unlacing my corset could not have been a more arduous task. The particular hand positioning required to undo the stringy knots in the back aggravated my injured shoulder blade to new heights of pain. I rested as much as I could, working in short increments, and resigned myself to misery. Once I had shifted and loosened my outer garments enough to reach the damaged areas, I crawled closer to the stream.

My reflection gazed back at me, astonished.

Jack had not allowed mirrors in my bedchambers after I had shattered several during one of my escape attempts. Thus I had not seen myself in a long while, and now, with my skin exposed and reflected in the water, I was appalled. 

Black and blue bruises dotted my arms, chest, collarbones, and ribs. Underneath some of these and even more obvious in the other places, I could see scars from lacerations and burns. Jack did love his branding iron. It was impossible to clearly tell through my reflection in the water which of my wounds were new and which were old. Detachedly, I decided that the aches would either worsen or heal, and that is how I would know if any required treatment presently. I forced myself to reach into the cold stream and to start washing, but I was lost. Every gesture felt futile.

I hated him. The pure loathing I felt for Jack was one I had never felt for another being and also one I had not considered myself capable of feeling. And yet, the desperate hatred that I carried for him paled in comparison to the disgust I reserved for myself. Words were insufficient to describe how wholly I despised myself for my weakness; for being unable to escape; for not resisting harder; for not hurting him more in return.

Silent tears were streaming down my face. I could not tell when I had started crying, because I couldn’t feel anything with clarity anymore. Anger, pain, and shame overtook all my senses. When had I stopped being Lamb’s “little healer”? Was I still the same child he raised with so much love, or was that Claire gone forever? I closed my eyes, wishing this world away. 

When I opened my eyes next, I was fully dressed and cocooned in Jamie’s plaid, half-sat against a tree with a warm body alongside my right flank. Dawn was breaking, and I realized that I must have collapsed.

“Ye awake, then?” Jamie asked quietly.

It took me a moment to gather my voice.

“I could ask you the same,” I replied. I did not want to continue; I was too afraid. But I had to. “What happened?”

He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. 

“I found ye in the water, lass,” he said. “Tis a wonder ye didna drown, but yer head were on a rock and ye were braithin’. I dinna ken what happened.”

He had seen me, then, of course he had. I clutched the plaid closer, feeling naked despite all the layers of fabric. Shame burned hotly in my belly. 

Then, Jamie spoke. 

“The English… four yeairs ago, they put a levy on all the landhulders in the county. Sent ou’ small parties o’ soldiers collectin’ food and horses for transport, and suchlike. Aye, I ken it was one day in October that captain Randall came along to our home. My father was away, gone tae a funeral. I was up in the fields when I heard shouting. I ran as fast as my legs wud carry me and came upon two redcoats holdin’ dun my sister. She had a mind tae affront them by sayin’ no to a levy we couldna bear. I freed her, by force… yelled at’er to run. But it wasna enough. Randall had her stood in front o’ me tae watch as he whipped me. He want’d to send a message tae all Scots; all landhulders, and farmers, and braithirs, and sisters. This is what ye get when ye fight back against the English.” 

He turned to look at me. His deep blue gaze was filled with honesty and compassion, and somehow I knew he felt sorry for me without pitying me. He wanted to understand me.

“We waer the wounds wi pride, Sassenach. For we survived to carry them,” he said. 

When Murtagh returned unscathed later, the silence in which he, Jamie, and I continued to ride was changed. We were no longer strangers, the three of us; not after the wounds, and words, and comforts that we had shared. Whether I could call these two men friends I was not yet sure. But what I was certain of was that our adventure together was just beginning.


	2. Episode two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God save the Queen. How has it already been almost a year? I wrote this ages ago, I think. There's a new season out, I think. We shall continue, I think.

The rain was quiet and gentle around us, steady but unimposing. It seemed to me that it somehow awakened the natural sounds of the forest, for I could now hear with much greater clarity the wind in the trees, the creaking of branches, the hooves of our horses on the thick moss… the distant rush of a stream.

We had been riding without rest for the better part of the day and had about as many hours of journeying remaining still, according to Murtagh. He had spent most of this time whispering stories about Castle Leoch and its laird, Colum MacKenzie, while Jamie dozed off behind me, his warm forehead bumping against the back of my neck as his head drooped with sleep.

For the first time in several years, I felt peaceful, almost safe. It was a peculiar sensation.

“But why is Dougal war chief if Colum is laird?” I asked Murtagh, continuing my questioning.

The older Scot hummed. “Colum cannae go to war, lass,” he said. “He toppled from a horse as a young lad, ye ken, and got, weel…” he trailed off.

“What?”

“He doesna run no more, mistress,” Murtagh explained, still hesitant.

I paused in thought for a moment. The intricacy of the circumstance was slowly revealing itself. The laird of clan MacKenzie was a capable leader, and a fair one, if Murtagh’s tales were to be trusted. But he was plagued by a malady that prevented him from standing alongside his men in battle, which is why Dougal, Colum’s younger brother, held such power over their kin.

“Has he sought the assistance of healers?” I wondered aloud. “Perhaps someone from clan Meic-bethad?” Lamb had once professed admiration toward the healing techniques practiced by the clansmen.

“Aye, he did,” Murtagh nodded. “He hed one Beaton charmer reside at Leoch for years afore the man passed, but it did nae good. Some sae laird MacKenzie was cursed by a witch as a wee bairn, and tha’ only a witch’s kindred can nae cure ‘im.”

I rolled my eyes. “My uncle was a respected healer, and not once did I witness him consult witches or shamans. He believed that God created all bodies to heal naturally if given the chance.”

Murtagh crossed himself at the mention of shamans. He then eyed Jamie pointedly.

“I dinnae think young Jamie here woulda much thanked ye fer leavin’ his bullet tae heal naturally, mistress,” he said, teasing.

I glanced over my shoulder at the mop of red hair attached to the exhausted Scot now collapsed almost entirely upon my back. An unbidden smirk tugged at my lips. I resisted.

“I was interested in taking a closer look at the bullet,” I said, with mock disinterest.

Murtagh laughed until tears started streaming down his cheeks.

\--

We arrived at Leoch the next morning.

Murtagh had spoken truly; the castle was as beautiful as he promised and busier than I could have imagined. Every man, woman, and child looked to be moving with purpose, going about their daily chores. The air was filled with the _plinks_ of smithies working their iron, the overlapping voices of dogs and children, and the chatter of women sat together to weave baskets.

I was surprised to not find Dougal waiting for us at the gates, sour and prepared to make right on his oath about consequences. However, I did spot an open window overlooking the castle’s courtyard with two figures peering down through it, just out of sight, which caused me to suspect that Dougal was watching, and perhaps even Colum.

“Murtagh Fitzgibbons, ye reek like ye slept wi pigs fer a month _after_ ye were drug thru sheep dung,” said a loud voice as I dismounted, and Jamie followed suit. “Have ye no shame, man!”

 _Fitzgibbons is his surname, then_? I turned my head to find Murtagh being accosted by a short, grey-haired woman with strict features etched into her wrinkled face and mirth-filled eyes shining below her cap in playful contrast to the rest of her manner. Murtagh leapt off his horse and embraced her with exaggerated enthusiasm.

“Gi’s a kiss then, Missus Fitz,” he cooed and proceeded to make loud kissing noises against the woman’s cheeks. Several children stopped to gawk at the proceedings. The woman swatted Murtagh away, her eyes dancing.

Befuddled, I turned back to Jamie for an explanation… and found that he had been watching my reaction the entire time. I pursed my lips, and slowly and deliberately raised my eyebrows in question, nodding towards where Murtagh was still putting on a stage-worthy performance. Jamie grinned in a manner so smug and lopsided it was almost offensive and went back to tending to the horses, completely unperturbed.

I decided that I should’ve throttled the lout when I had had the chance.

“An who d’we have hier?” A nearby voice demanded.

I spun around just in time to glimpse Murtagh bow theatrically and bolt for the castle door behind the stout woman.

 _Bloody highlanders_ , I thought to myself.

“My name is Claire Beauchamp, madam,” I addressed the older woman politely. “Mister, uh, Fitzgibbons, Mr. MacTavish, and I were part of Dougal MacKenzie’s party but got waylaid because Mr. MacTavish was injured. Could I possibly trouble the castle’s surgeon for suture tools? Mr. MacTavish here might still bleed out if his wound is not properly stitched.”

I gestured towards Jamie who shrugged with his better shoulder, still busy with the horses. “Nae need to fash yerself on my account, Mrs. Fitz, it was just a scratch, a wee—”

“D’ye mean to imply ye ken what to do fer that, wi’e needles?” the woman asked, ignoring Jamie entirely.

I nodded, suddenly very amused.

“Are ye a charmer, then? A Beaton?”

“No, madam,” I explained. “But I am a healer. I was trained by a well-respected surgeon, who kindly accepted me as an apprentice.”

She pinned me with a scrutinizing look for a minute, but I appeared to have convinced her. “Away in wi ye then, this way, lassie. My name is Mrs. Fitzgibbons, but everyone calls me Mrs. Fitz, and ye may also,” she rambled, extending her arm in the direction of the castle. She rounded on Jamie as I was passing. “And ye, off ye go too if ye ken what's right fer ye hide!”

Jamie grumbled in protest but obeyed. However, he caught the woman's elbow and paused to lean down to whisper in her ear what I supposed was a private greeting, so I headed inside alone to afford him some well-deserved privacy.

\--

A few hours later, the pot of boiling rags was almost ready.

“As ye asked, garlic and witch hazel tae boil the rags,” Mrs. Fitz said, stirring the pot gently. “I also brought comfrey and cherry bark for the pain. We have nae man at the surgery these days, but I fetched his needles and knives if ye ken how ter open this.”

She reached into her dress pocket and stood to hand me a small, rectangular box made of wood. It was covered in intricate carvings. Lamb had had one just like this; he had called it his surgery kit.

“I do believe I might,” I smiled, and felt around for the two bumps on each side of the box, pressing down on them simultaneously. The box sprang open, revealing a set of lovely tools, including scissors and needles.

Mrs. Fitz clapped her hands. “Oh what did ye do, lassie?”

“These buttons over here,” I pointed easily, demonstrating the mechanism to her, “they have to be touched at the same time for the box to open. It’s designed this way to ensure the tools stay clean, and the box doesn’t open on accident.”

“How wonderful!” she laughed, and then cleared her throat as if remembering herself. “Weel, call out if ye need anything else. I’m nae one for blood, ye see.” She glanced at Jamie’s shoulder.

“Of course, thank you again, Mrs. Fitz,” I said and saw Jamie nod in agreement.

With the older woman gone, I turned to Jamie and placed my hands on my hips.

“Alright, best get it done, Mr. MacTavish. Once I’ve stitched you up, you can get some rest. I dare say you could use a lenghty night’s rest on a bed.”

The redheaded man gave me a look. “Jamie.”

“I don't understand,” I frowned, taken by surprise.

“Call me Jamie, mistress. MacTavish is no’ my true name, and ye’ve taken honest care o’ my scrapes fer days now,” he said by way of explanation. “Tis strange ter hear ye call me by a false name.”

“Jamie,” I said slowly, trying out the weight and the shape of the name in my mouth. The Scot looked back sheepishly. I quirked an eyebrow at him, then ordered, “Off with your shirt, then, Jamie. We don’t have all day.”

While the man was wrestling with his clothing, I examined the tools again, selecting the needle best suited for the size of the wound and some thread. I also poured Jamie a cup of comfrey and cherry bark tea and moved the pot of rags off the hearth flames. The next few moments passed in comfortable silence as I meticulously rearranged all the items in preparation for the stitching, had Jamie drink the tea to dull his pain, and began unwrapping his bandages, careful not to touch any skin.

By the time the bandages were removed, the boiled rags had cooled as planned, so I used one of them to clean my hands and all of the tools I required during the procedure.

“You may call me Claire, by the way,” I said cheerfully, still cleaning, “though it seems that you prefer Sassenach?”

“Och, Murtagh,” Jamie groaned loudly and started muttering furiously in Gaelic under his breath.

I smirked. “I don’t think I quite caught that, Mr. MacTavish.” I picked up the needle and held it at the ready where the young man could see. “Sorry, _Jamie_.”

For once, Jamie looked appropriately flustered. “Ye ken it only means outlander, mistress. I thought it suited ye, seeing how ye’re an Englishwoman among highlanders. It wasna meant in offense, lass, nane at all, I promise,” he babbled, eyes locked on the needle.

I barked out a laugh, unable to contain myself any longer. Jamie flushed scarlet but relaxed into a companionable smile.

“Aye, ye’re a Sassenach indeed, lass,” he said. “Ye just played me like a fiddle.”

“I’m afraid I have no talent for music, Jamie. But my sewing is excellent,” I joked, approaching his wound and refocusing on the task at hand.

The cut I had had to make to extract the bullet was holding together nicely. I was pleased to see that it was overall not my worst work and that it wasn’t weeping, which was a promising sign. Warning Jamie that I was about to begin, I cleaned the wound with the garlic and witch hazel rags and took to stitching.

Almost immediately, the process consumed me. The outside noises seeping into the room through the open windows faded, and the dull, constant pain in my back receded. How truly wonderful it felt to be useful again, and to help another person. For years, I had been deprived of the truest calling I had ever had. For years, I had been beaten and burned and used against my will in more ways than I could count. For years, Jack had kept me confined almost entirely to my bedchambers, like a worthless, occasionally amusing doll.

All it took to erase all of those memories—if only for a mere moment—was a needle in my hand and a wounded, red-haired Scot.

At least that much was true until I saw Jamie’s back.

I had finished suturing the wound and was explaining as much to my patient when I leant over to check that I hadn’t somehow injured the other side of his trapezius muscle during the original operation. That’s when I saw them. The seemingly endless scars, crisscrossing his whole back.

“No,” I whispered. The word continued echoing in my head, a thousand times louder.

“Sassenach?”

“No,” I said again, peering straight into Jamie’s questioning gaze, pleading. “No, please, not you, please tell me it wasn’t you.”

I stumbled backward and dropped one of the rags on the floor, clumsily managing to deposit the needle and thread back onto the table and barely able to hold myself upright. My shoulder blade was throbbing with pain again, and a deep chill bloomed inside my chest, spreading all the way to my fingers and toes, drowning me.

Jamie appeared at my elbow. “Lass, ye look like ye need to sit down,” he said, already guiding me towards hearth, where he was sat moments ago. “What’s the matter wi ye, Sassenach?” He reached out and enveloped my hands in his. His palms were warm.

“You were flogged.” It wasn’t a question. “You were flogged, twice, in the span of a week,” I breathed out wretchedly.

Jamie’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “How could ye ken that, mistress?”

I wanted to weep. Desperately, I wanted to sob, but the tears wouldn’t come. I knew about the flogging because Jack had told me. He had come to me that night, nearly blind with arousal, and had spoken feverishly for hours about his “crimson masterpiece”. Ecstatic, he had described in detail the young boy he had flogged that day. How the boy had been flogged earlier in the week and had been still open. How he had intended to pace himself so that he could continue long enough for the boy to cry out because he had not done so during the first flogging.

I had had to watch as he spoke himself into the oblivion of a climax, describing his work. The boy wouldn’t cry out no matter what he did, he had said. But it didn’t matter, because he had stopped caring within minutes, he had panted. As the boy’s skin broke and peeled, and bled, covering everything in red—the wooden post to which he was tied, Jack’s whip, his own clothes, Jack’s clothes—Jack had started seeing the masterpiece they were creating together, he had groaned. Jack had moaned that they were connected, locked in a dance of truest and most honest beauty he had ever seen in his life. And, simply picturing it, right there in front of me, he had swelled and released in a great, shuddering sigh.

That night was the first and only time I had consciously attempted the most permanent kind of escape from Jack's prison. I had forced my body to be still until Jack had left the room. As soon as his steps had receded, I had pushed my desk in front of the door and smashed the mirror. The sound of it shattering on the floor had awakened the entire manor, but I had not cared. I had taken the sharpest, longest shard I could see and plunged it into my stomach without hesitation. Of course, I had grossly miscalculated. While the pain had made me lose consciousness instantly, it had not ended my life before Jack's servants could get through the door. Had I been capable of sensible thought at that moment, I would’ve slashed a major vein or angled the shard in a more calculated manner. But after watching Jack that night, I had been barely human.

I couldn’t look at Jamie.

I knew now what had inspired Jack to call him his “crimson” masterpiece. It hadn't only been Jamie’s tortured, bleeding back; but also the man’s brilliantly red and unforgettably beautiful curls.

He was still holding my hands, waiting patiently for an answer that I couldn’t give. I collapsed forward into his lap and chest, pulling at my hair in desperation.

“My God in heaven, Jamie, I’m sorry,” I cried without tears, “I’m so sorry for what he did, please, oh god, I’m so, so sorry, Jamie. How could you ever forgive me for it? How could you ever? God have mercy, Jamie, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, please, Jamie, please, please forgive me.”

There was no hesitation in him; Jamie embraced my shuddering frame and started rocking back and forth, his touch light and soothing.

“There is nothing tae forgive, lass,” he soothed, “nothing at all. I dinna ken if ye were in the crowd tha’ cursed day, but it doesna matter. My faithir was there, and he couldna do anything neither.”

His fingers found my chin and gently angled it upwards. “Claire, there isna anything tae forgive,” he told me truthfully, gaze locked to mine.

I found my tears.

\--

The next morning, Mrs. Fitz shook me awake and sat me down by the hearth for a cup of broth. Its mild flavor and the scent of poultry and root vegetables soothed my senses, and I drank the warm liquid almost contentedly as I watched the older woman putter about the room.

Jamie and I had parted ways quietly the previous night. With his patient guidance and supportive touch, I had reined in my emotions for long enough to properly dress his wound. Unfortunately, his blind kindness had done nothing to cease my inner turmoil. The act of reliving Jack’s depravity would simply form a fresh scar, this I accepted, but knowing that the madness that my husband had perpetrated was inflicted upon _Jamie_ broke my heart in ways I could not describe.

I clutched the cup.

Why, in all of the bloody redheaded Scots in goddamn Scotland, had it been Jamie?!

“I fetched ye a dress fer when ye meet Himself,” Mrs. Fitz was saying as she opened the drapes and readied the pots and soaps and rags for washing, “but no after mistress Duncan looks ye over, o’course.”

“What?” I had been barely listening. “Who?”

Mrs. Fitz straightened, throwing me a stern glance. “Nae dinna make ye trouble, child,” she said. “I ken ye’re sore from the riding, and mistress Duncan isna healer, like ye are, but she’s been verra helpful to us afore. It’s nae bother for her, and ye’ll feel all the better after.”

Through the blood rushing in my ears, I noticed distantly that I was now standing.

 _Why did he have to hurt_ Jamie!

“Mrs. Fitz, I believe there has been a misunderstanding,” I explained in no uncertain terms. “I do not require the services of a healer or a surgeon, or any other charmers who can answer your summons, because I am entirely capable of treating my own hurts when necessary.”

I had no intention of letting anyone examine my body in its current state.

The grey-haired woman _tutted_ in impatience. “Aye, Jamie said ye’d resist.”

For a moment, my mind went blank.

“I beg your pardon? What on earth does Mr. MacTavish have to do with this?”

“He said ye were more’n likely desperate fer a warm bath and a soft bed, which wasna untrue,” Mrs. Fitz crooned, pausing to give me a pointed look, “and’e also kent ye needed a fellow charmer tae tend to yer aches, but that yer pride stopped ye from askin’.”

I crossed my hands defensively, feeling somewhat betrayed.

“Mrs. Fitz,” I said through my teeth, “I am a grown woman. Should I bloody require help, I will ask for it myself, and I will not be treated like a child. Nor do I require Mr. MacTavish to make inquiries on my behalf. In fact, I would venture so far as to say it was mightily rude of him to speak to you before asking for my permission.”

The room stood deathly still around us.

I glared brazenly, breathing through my nose, while Mrs. Fitz’s eyes narrowed, her palms rising up to rest on her hips. She broke the spell by turning on her heel back to the pots as though the confrontation had never happened.

“Och, lassie, yer as wild as an unbroken mare and no verra practiced at lookin’ if ye canna see why the lad asked me,” the older woman said.

Her tone and her words did not settle my mood. Fuming, I said, “Please do enlighten me.”

She set down the pot and the soap, drying her hands on her apron.

“Mistress Duncan will see ye in an hour. Be ready then, child,” she said in a strangely amused tone and pulled the door shut loudly on her way out.


End file.
